


left side of the ways to be wrong

by paracyane



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, no light novel spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:12:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paracyane/pseuds/paracyane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“I’m not a kid,” Kasuka says dryly. The vicious little word digs deeper than Shizuo expects, excavating like it has a purpose, a destination. Like it’s looking for something, the thing that Shizuo’s desperately trying to hide. “I’m sure you still don’t think of me as one?”</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	left side of the ways to be wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaiosea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiosea/gifts).



 

“What if I told you,” Kasuka starts. They’re in the middle of the sidewalk, on their way to a restaurant that Kasuka had made a reservation at last week. He has a hand shielding his eyes against the late afternoon sun, the other at his side in his pocket.

Shizuo gives him a minute or so before prompting, “What if you told me what?”

Kasuka looks sideways, at the already brightly lit sign above a bakery and a movie theater right next to it across the street from them. “What if I told you that I found you a new job?”

“Not bartending again, I hope,” Shizuo jokes, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “But if it is, I already have the clothes for it.”

That makes Kasuka crack a smile, the barely noticeable upward lilt of his mouth. He says, “It’s not bartending.”

With the light at this angle, Kasuka’s shadow is twice as long as him. Kasuka isn’t looking down or up or at the sun anymore. He’s looking at Shizuo, his bangs falling into his eyes, his face the unwelcoming, placid blankness that’s so achingly familiar. If Shizuo didn’t know him, he would never have correctly guessed Kasuka’s personality, the composition of bone and blood and breath that make him up.

Shizuo still isn’t sure that he knows Kasuka’s personality, even now.

“Then what?” Shizuo asks, glancing away.

Kasuka pauses before he says, “Come on.” They’re two blocks away from the restaurant. “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

 

 

They take the ferry out to the island, their bags at Shizuo’s feet and the last one on Kasuka’s lap. They’re under a roof, but Shizuo keeps his sunglasses on, carefully not looking in Kasuka’s direction.

Half an hour of silence later, Shizuo says, “So Oshima is the island where Godzilla took place?”

Kasuka sighs. “We’re not filming a Godzilla sequel,” he says. “I already told you.”

“You told me that you needed a bodyguard,” Shizuo reminds him.

“And you told _me_ that you would take the job,” Kasuka points out.

Shizuo leans back against the seat, the hard plastic digging into his shoulders. “I already have a job, you know.”

Kasuka shrugs. “You could have said no.”

His indifference bothers Shizuo, for reasons that he can’t put into words. Kasuka reaches down to unzip one of his bags, his forearm pressing against Shizuo’s knee. Shizuo feels a lump rise in his throat, along with all the old weaknesses. Not now, he thinks. Not now. He’s on a boat in the middle of open sea and _now_ is not a good time.

Kasuka straightens up, eyes unreadable. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Shizuo says roughly, glaring out the window. There’s a bird perched on the edge of the deck, feathers fluttering in the wind. Then it takes flight, swooping into the water; Shizuo thinks he sees a fish in the bird’s mouth as it disappears into the sky.

When they dock, Shizuo picks up his bags, waiting for Kasuka to do the same. Kasuka moves more slowly, struggling with the suitcase until he gets it propped up at the right angle. The taxi ride to the hotel is quiet, with Kasuka reading the emails he had missed from his manager.

“You have a non-smoking room,” Kasuka tells him, after they check in. Shizuo takes the keycard between his fingers of his free hand, lifting his bags with the other. The rooms are adjoined, but Kasuka keeps the door between them closed before coming to Shizuo’s.

“Is this your way of telling me to quit?” Shizuo asks, half tempted to light one up right then and there.

Kasuka doesn’t reply, just picks up the lighter from where Shizuo had put it on the bed, flicking it on and off. Shizuo lets him do it a couple times before taking it back, tucking it into his pocket.

“You’re going to set the room on fire,” Shizuo says, moving a bag with his foot so he can sit down on the bed. Kasuka looks at him from where he is, next to the lone chair in the room. The room smells like smoke, despite what Kasuka had said. Shizuo takes his glasses off, massaging above his nose. His fingers itch. “I don’t want to have to carry you out of a burning building.”

“But you’d carry me out?” Kasuka sits down, pulling his legs up to his chest. The way he used to sit when he was smaller. Kasuka has always been smaller. Shizuo remembers the day their parents brought Kasuka home from the hospital; he had stared down at the strange, alien-like creature in the crib and wondered in the uncomplicated way of youth, how it would ever grow to be another human being just like him.

But Kasuka did grow, even if he never grew past Shizuo, or became just like him.

“You’re my client,” Shizuo says simply. When Kasuka doesn’t look impressed, Shizuo adds, “And my brother.”

“Your brother,” Kasuka repeats. He’s looking at the uncarpeted floor, the small cracks in the walls. Shizuo doesn’t follow his line of sight. In the end, the nautical obscurity of Kasuka’s face doesn’t clear up before he leaves the room. Behind him, Shizuo watches his retreating back, as if they’ve never been in this position before.

 

 

“You didn’t tell me that you still had an extra day before filming started,” Shizuo accuses, after he comes back in from a smoke. Kasuka is in front of the mirror in Shizuo’s room, inspecting his chin. “We could have just stayed in the same room if you’re going to be in here all the time.”

“How do you feel about sushi for breakfast?” Kasuka asks, moving on to scrutinize his complexion around his hairline. “There’s a good place a couple minutes from here.”

It’s been a while since Shizuo has seen Kasuka in the morning, before he can slide into his perfectly unflawed mask, his normal persona. There’s even a dab of toothpaste on his lower lip. If Shizuo can see it from this distance, surely Kasuka can see it on himself in the mirror. But Kasuka doesn’t wipe the toothpaste off, and Shizuo follows it with his eyes, until he realizes that Kasuka is standing right in front of him.

“What?” Shizuo asks. The inside of his mouth tastes like cigarette smoke. The inside of Kasuka’s mouth probably tastes like toothpaste. “Didn’t you say you wanted to get breakfast?”

“You should exfoliate,” Kasuka says, reaching up to lift Shizuo’s bangs away from his forehead. “Your skin will thank you.”

Shizuo knocks his arm away. “I’m not the one on the big screen.”

It’s enough to make Kasuka take a couple steps back. Shizuo searches blindly with his foot until he finds the edge of the bed, and sinks down on the mattress.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to come if you were going to be angry the entire time,” Kasuka mumbles. Shizuo barely catches the words, crushed between Kasuka’s teeth and the floor. The floor doesn’t talk back. Kasuka barely does.

“I’m not angry,” Shizuo tells him. There’s so much he wants to say here. So much that he can’t say. “I’m…”

“You’re what?” Kasuka asks. He doesn’t even give Shizuo a chance to catch his breath. Shizuo’s fingers haven’t stopped itching since they got to the island. This isn’t the worst thing Shizuo’s ever gone through, but no grand theft auto would ever hold a candle to what Kasuka’s face looks like now.

“Nothing,” Shizuo says, balling his hands into fists with his fingers deep in the bed sheets. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

 

 

Shizuo spends the day laying on the beach, while Kasuka curls up under a parasol on a fold-up chair. For late April, the beach isn’t too crowded, and no one seems to recognize Kasuka.

Still, Shizuo takes off his sunglasses and hands them to him.

“You want me to wear these?” Kasuka asks, skepticism blatant. He turns them over in his hands gingerly.

Shizuo lays back down, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to get a tan line on my face,” he offers as an alternate explanation, pushing his hair away from his face. Instead of relaxing him, it just serves as a reminder of how Kasuka’s fingers had felt on his skin, the texture and depth of touch he had delivered.

Kasuka nudges him with a foot. “Put on sunscreen.” He tosses the bottle to Shizuo. “I don’t want to take you to the hospital for sun poisoning.”

“I won’t get sun poisoning,” Shizuo says, but he puts it on anyway, sand already sticking to his skin.

He doesn’t realize Kasuka is paying attention until he says, “I can do your back.” Before Shizuo can protest or make any move to stop him, Kasuka is on his knees in the sand, Shizuo’s sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. They look terrible on him.

It takes no time at all for the awareness to kick in: that Kasuka has never touched him before today.

Even if he had, Shizuo supposes it would be different. Because Kasuka is an adult now and not the infant in the crib. Not the toddler who would always be sucking on his fingers and throwing his pacifier across the room in rebellion. Not the little boy Shizuo would walk to school with every day. Kasuka is and isn’t any of those people anymore. But he does have his hands on Shizuo’s back, running up to his shoulders and unnecessarily down his arms. The itch in Shizuo’s fingers gets worse.

“I think that’s enough,” Shizuo says, after the longest ten minutes of his life.

“No, I missed a spot—”

Shizuo forcibly makes himself move away, turning so that they’re facing each other again. The sun is in his eyes. He’s glad. Then Kasuka moves a couple degrees to the right and his face is framed by the light, a halo of fire. There’s nothing more that Shizuo wants to do than look away, against the tidal wave carrying him to the shoreline.

A beat later, Kasuka goes back to his chair. There’s nothing in the vicinity for Shizuo to grab and tear apart, just to keep his hands occupied. It’s never been fair, that every time Kasuka speaks, it tears open another wound when Shizuo has spent his entire life stitching his body back together.

Shizuo has never been good at fixing anything. He has never been good at being cruel to his brother, either.

“I hope you end up with an uneven tan,” Kasuka says, and Shizuo laughs, kicking the ache in his chest until he doesn’t have anything left to give.

 

 

Kasuka’s first day on the set has Shizuo sitting behind the cameras. He’s given a chair, at Kasuka’s request.

“I can stand,” Shizuo says, even as one of the staff members brings out the chair.

“Filming is going to last eight hours,” Kasuka tells him. His makeup is done already, his hair perfectly set. They had sushi again this morning, but Shizuo doesn’t think it’s the whole reason to why he feels so sick every time he blinks. He’d spent the entire night with a hand pressed to the wall he and Kasuka shared, wondering if Kasuka had locked his side of the door. If Kasuka was trying as hard as he was to hear him breathe.

Shizuo has spent too many collective hours, trying to figure out how Kasuka breathes.

“I’ll sit,” Shizuo says, and Kasuka smiles. Shizuo can count the times he’s seen that smile on his two hands. That is, if they would stop shaking for long enough. To Kasuka, he probably looks like he always does.

“You don’t actually have to stay, you know.” Kasuka adjusts the neckline of his shirt. He looks like the poster boy of summer. “No one’s going to try and abduct me with this many people around.”

“What, you’re trying to get rid of me now?” Shizuo pushes his sunglasses away from his face, rubbing his eyes with the bump of his knuckles. He would pretend forever, if Kasuka did too, that he wasn’t thinking about Kasuka’s hands on his skin. “I could try going snorkeling.”

“You’ll drown,” Kasuka tells him.

“I really appreciate the faith you have in me,” Shizuo retorts, leaning his head back against the back of the chair.

There isn’t a scar in sight on Kasuka’s hands. Unmarred and unblemished. Kasuka never got into fights when he was younger. He never got bruises, no scrapes, no cuts. Nothing for Shizuo to kiss, even if he had been an affectionate brother.

“Why are you staring?” Kasuka asks.

“Just thinking that I should teach you how to punch,” Shizuo replies candidly, pushing past the nauseous twist in his gut. He never wants to see Kasuka punch someone. Kasuka can probably guess that much. Shizuo's positive that there are staff members listening in on their conversation. “You’re not going to always have a bodyguard around.”

Kasuka doesn’t miss a beat before he says, “I’ll always have my brother.”

If they had been alone, Shizuo is sure that he wouldn’t have gone into defensive mode. Kasuka leans an arm against the top of the chair, right next to Shizuo’s head. His wrist is tiny. Shizuo could break it with a single hand if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. They don't touch again, and yet. Every single cauterized nerve in Shizuo’s body sparks back to life.

It’s ironic that Kasuka hired Shizuo to protect him, when it was Shizuo that he should have been protected from this entire time.

Shizuo clears his throat, when Kasuka doesn’t offer anything else. “What’s this an advertisement for, anyway?”

It’s meant to be a dismissal, but Kasuka sticks his foot in the way before the door can be shut on the topic. Maybe one of the only bruises he’s gotten in his life. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

Without meaning to, Shizuo digs his fingers into one of the plastic arms of the chair, bending the material until there’s an imprint of his palm left behind. Kasuka inspects the damage briefly, before stepping back, briefly conceding.

“It’s for these shoes,” Kasuka says.

“What?”

“The advertisement.” Kasuka kicks the ground. Shizuo doesn’t feel the impact from where he is, but he watches the dirt fly up, not nearly high enough, and wonders if the bruise hurts. “It’s for the shoes.”

 

 

“I think you’ve gone through at least ten pairs of shoes in the last two days,” Shizuo says, after filming wraps up for the night. They’re in Kasuka’s trailer. It isn’t his usual one, Kasuka had told him, because it would have been too much of a pain to transport it all the way out to the island. Instead, it’s a rented one. Even Kasuka looks out of place against the muted milk coloring of the walls, washed out and devitalized.

“Six,” Kasuka corrects. “And I get to keep them.” He holds one of the discarded shoes against Shizuo’s foot. “Never mind, your feet are too big.”

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted them.” Shizuo masks a grin, balancing his head on an elbow and palm.

“Did you?”

Shizuo considers the shoe, the contemporary design of the sneaker. “No,” he decides. “They wouldn’t look good on me.”

Kasuka reaches over for the box, somehow fitting both of the shoes in and closing the lid. “Did everyone else leave?”

Shizuo shrugs, leaning back. He’s never seen the inside of one of these trailers before. Not even Kasuka’s. “I’m not your manager,” he says. “I’m your bodyguard.”

“Thanks,” Kasuka replies, sarcasm heavy. “Glad to know that there could be a lineup of serial killers waiting just outside the door.”

Shizuo laughs, not bothering to cover his face. He’s about to say something back when Kasuka cuts in, “This is why I told you about this job.”

“What?”

Kasuka sighs, like he’s doing Shizuo a favor. “I didn’t want to come all the way here with a bunch of men in suits.” He gets up, stacking the shoebox on top of all the others. He’s got quite a collection growing. “And I’m not in Ikebukuro often.”

It’s unusually expressive of Kasuka. Before Shizuo can decide whether to smile or frown, Kasuka goes to the door.

“If we had time, I’d teach you how to snorkel,” Kasuka says. His makeup is sliding off his face, sunken into his cheeks. The gel on his temple is starting to flake, the hairs coming out of place. Shizuo makes himself look away, because if he doesn’t stop now, he knows he’ll never be able to. “And how to swim, I guess.”

“You don’t know how to snorkel or swim,” Shizuo says, shaking the itch from his fingers before curling them inwards. “We’d both drown.”

“I should start a rumor that Heiwajima Shizuo is afraid of water,” Kasuka muses, only partly to himself. “That would ruin your reputation.”

“I’m glad you think about ruining my reputation in your free time, but I haven’t eaten in,” Shizuo glances at the wall clock, “eight hours.”

Kasuka has a hand on the doorknob. “I told you that you didn’t have to stay.”

“What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let my client out of sight?” Shizuo asks. “I’m good at my job, you know.”

“I know,” Kasuka says. “I’m good at mine.”

Shizuo sees the flit of his eyes struggle around the wall behind him before coming to a rest somewhere near Shizuo’s earlobe. “I never said that you weren’t.”

He expects Kasuka to open the door, but Kasuka doesn’t. He’s standing there, like he’s expecting something. His eyes are narrowed, sharp behind his lashes, a sharp contrast to the soft focus of his features normally. It’s not a good look on him. The public has seen a lot of looks on Kasuka, and this makes the top of Shizuo’s least favorite list.

“If it makes you feel better, then start that rumor that I’m afraid of water,” Shizuo says, around the thickness building up in the back of his tongue. “Because I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t start a rumor about you if it wasn’t true,” Kasuka replies. “Rumors are only good if they’re true.”

Shizuo wouldn’t call himself a genius, but even he can tell that Kasuka isn’t talking about his nonexistent aquaphobia anymore. They must have been in the trailer for a while, because suddenly Shizuo is having trouble gathering oxygen in his lungs, the oppressive heat finally taking over.

“Open the door already,” Shizuo says, wiping the sweat of his forehead. “It’s like a thousand degrees in here.”

“It’s really not,” Kasuka replies, flat and characteristic, but he does open the door, his shoulders stretching wide across the frame before leading the way.

 

 

It’s nearly nine on the night before their ferry leaves for the mainland when Kasuka opens the door between their rooms again, this time with two beers in his hand.

Shizuo frowns. “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“They’re for you,” Kasuka says, holding them out. Shizuo accepts, even though his tongue is already curling back at the thought of alcohol. He opens the first, popping the cap off with his thumb and catching it before it falls all the way. “I don’t know what you like to drink.”

“These are fine,” Shizuo lies.

“No, I mean—” Kasuka breaks off, sighing. There’s still a smear of something under his eye. Shizuo reaches over and wipes his thumb over it. Predictably, the makeup doesn’t come off, but it does have the desired effect: Kasuka with his lips slightly parted, eyes widened in surprise.

“You should exfoliate,” Shizuo says, taking a swig of his beer so the shaking in his voice won’t be so palpable. “Your skin will thank you.”

Kasuka looks like he’s going to smile, before he abruptly changes his mind. “I’m not sure you know what exfoliating is.”

“And you do?”

“I go to a dermatologist,” Kasuka says defensively. “And there used to be an exfoliator in the bathroom at home.”

Shizuo adjusts his grip on the bottle. “You remember stuff like that?”

“It was right next to the mouthwash.” Kasuka leans against the closed door. He’s all the way in Shizuo’s room now. “You got bleach on it when you dyed your hair.”

“You should’ve helped me dye my hair,” Shizuo mutters. The years where he was the weakest. Shizuo doesn’t want a reminder. Not now. Not now and not ever. “Then it wouldn’t have gotten everywhere.”

“You didn’t ask me to help,” Kasuka says. He takes a step closer. Then another. “Do you still dye it yourself?”

“I know how to do it now,” Shizuo snaps. He puts the bottle down on the bedside table before he throws it. “I don’t need any help.”

Kasuka reaches over and grabs the bottle, downing the rest of it in big gulps. Shizuo watches his throat work frantically, the Judas heart of his speeding up.

“I thought you couldn’t handle alcohol,” Shizuo comments, as Kasuka drops the bottle. To Shizuo’s relief, it doesn’t break.

“I’m not a kid,” Kasuka says dryly. The vicious little word digs deeper than Shizuo expects, excavating like it has a purpose, a destination. Like it’s looking for something, the thing that Shizuo’s desperately trying to hide. “I’m sure you still don’t think of me as one?”

“I do.” Shizuo almost laughs. “Why, do you not want me to?”

Kasuka rubs under his eye, where Shizuo’s thumb had touched. The downcast slope of his mouth gives him away. “What are you, dense?”

Shizuo suppresses the frustration that bubbles up. There wasn’t anything Kasuka had ever offered him other than companionship, the silence that followed half a step behind. On a good day, they walked at the same speed. Then Kasuka changed the pace without alerting Shizuo beforehand, and suddenly there was so much that Shizuo could never measure up to, despite being older, stronger, the power in his veins.

The last light has long disappeared. Shizuo had forgotten to close the window, and the fluttering of the curtains in the corner of his eye is undesirably distracting. Kasuka is still looking at him, just looking and looking and looking, like he’s trying to force the words out of Shizuo with the heat of his stare alone. He looks painfully young. Shizuo’s ribs clamp down furiously, all of his organs resisting their normal functions. If he could, he would spit out the blood in his mouth, the blood that never leaves his mouth. The blood that tells him to stop all rational movement of his mouth. Always his own blood, no one else’s.

The first time Shizuo had ever wanted to touch him, it had been out of anger, and he’d tried to throw the nearest thing at Kasuka instead of trying to mutilate him with his own hands. He spent years destroying every bone in his body and building them back stronger, again and again and again until they couldn’t break anymore, and even that hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t made him any stronger against what mattered the most. What he’d wanted the most.

It had never occurred to Shizuo, that those efforts might not have been the ones Kasuka deserved. It’s been a long time, Shizuo realizes, since they’ve been truly alone together. He’s looking straight at Kasuka, and Kasuka is meeting his gaze, this time.

No— Kasuka has always met his gaze. He must have never grown out of his rebellious years. Kasuka has changed so much from the tiny baby in the crib, all while Shizuo had been too afraid to watch.

Looking at him, Shizuo finally understands: Kasuka has never needed protecting.

“No,” Shizuo exhales. “No, I’m not dense.” Kasuka’s cheek is very soft under his hand. His eyes are lidded, an unconscious reflex of his body. Shizuo isn’t dense. Kasuka knows that. “I’m just your brother.”

“Is this your way of asking permission?” Kasuka manages. Shizuo doesn’t take his eyes off his mouth.

There’s a pressure around his neck, a phantom one, one that’s uncalled for. Kasuka’s hands are limp at his side. “If that’s what you want it to be.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Kasuka says, and then the pressure around Shizuo’s neck is Kasuka’s hands grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer. “I think you’re pretty dense.”

There are a lot of words that people have used to describe the infamous Heiwajima Shizuo throughout the years, but _afraid_ has only been used once, by Kasuka himself. The only person who had ever made Shizuo feel afraid.

Even the strongest man has a weakness. Over two decades and Shizuo's hasn't changed.

It's only now he realizes that the weakness is shared. 

Kasuka misses initially, his lips catching the corner of Shizuo’s before he reinforces his grip on Shizuo. The lights are on, but Shizuo can't see anything. Inevitable panic rises within, even with Kasuka there to ground him. 

Kasuka tastes like cheap beer mingling with the stale cigarettes from Shizuo’s last smoke, like toothpaste and mouthwash and truckloads of things that shouldn’t be pleasant. Shizuo has seen Kasuka kiss other people on screen and always wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end, and this is nothing like he had ever imagined. Shizuo could never have resisted for so long, if he knew what it would be like.

“What?” Kasuka asks, annoyed, when Shizuo pulls back a fraction.

Typical Kasuka. Shizuo bites down on the smirk. “I didn’t say anything.”

Kasuka narrows his eyes, the violent fury behind them kicking into gear. Shizuo knows that look. He sees it in the mirror every day. “Either kiss me or tell me to leave.”

The entire world and Kasuka's mouth. Shizuo could measure the distance and come up with the same number every time. He throws up a white flag at each end of the spectrum, begins his surrendering march with, “I’ll kiss you.”

 

 

“What if I told you,” Kasuka starts. Shizuo is still half asleep, his face buried in the pillow and the crook of Kasuka’s neck. Kasuka is so pale. Shizuo has always known this, but he’s never been close enough to map out the circuitry of blue with his eyes, then his fingers, his mouth.

“What now?” Shizuo grumbles.

Kasuka is on his back, not having to tilt his neck to face the ceiling. “What if I told you that we missed our ferry?”

Shizuo hits his head on the bed frame in his haste to sit up. “We missed our ferry?” When he finally manages to locate his phone, he sees that it’s barely the crack of dawn. The window is still open, the early morning chill ever present, especially at this time of year. “I can’t believe you just did that to me.”

Kasuka rolls over, turning his back to Shizuo. “You deserved it,” he says, already pulling the blankets back up to his shoulders. Shizuo knows better than to deliver a well-aimed kick at his shin. Kasuka isn’t for nothing the one person who has never been afraid of Shizuo.

Shizuo did deserve it. It’s a small price to pay, really. Kasuka has never liked accepting apologies or listening to half-formed excuses. They’ve always been similar, in that way.

“I’m never coming back to this island,” Shizuo informs him.

“That’s funny,” Kasuka says. Shizuo recognizes what his face is doing from the lilt of his voice, the intonation and direct cut of the syllables. Shizuo waits for his breathing to even out before settling back in for a couple more hours. He hears, distantly, as if from a dream, “I never want to come back either.”

 

 


End file.
